


A Breath of Fresh Air

by sansbanshees



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 07:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16080950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: Affection crops up in the unlikeliest of places.





	A Breath of Fresh Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonRider1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonRider1/gifts).



If another one of the seamstress’s pins stabs her during this fitting, Ellana will go _mad._

It could be worse, she supposes. It could be some garish, opulent dress they expect her to wear to the Winter Palace, layers upon layers of heavy fabric with a bodice cut low to display assets she’d only possess under the duress of a tightly laced corset. It probably helps that she’d lobbied heavily _against_ such a thing, favoring instead Cullen’s uncharacteristic engagement on the topic of fashion in suggesting a unified, _uniform_ front.

It’s a boxy thing, this uniform, fitted and symmetrical, crisp lines and stiff fabric and though it’s been cut specifically for her, to Ellana it sits—wrong. It’s too tight in all the wrong places and not tight enough in others, piss poor to fight in should there be a need for such a thing, and she’s certain there will be.

Still. It could be worse. Heavy skirts _cannot_ be conducive to kicking.

“You look ready to run,” Varric notes from across the room, tugging at his own high collar with a look of distinct displeasure.

“You don’t seem to be faring much better,” she says, raising a brow as she gestures to the line of buttons on his coat, all very notably _fastened_. “Will your chest hair even survive that confinement?”

Varric snorts, a wry look slipping in to replace his previous displeasure. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Dwarven chest hair is resilient stuff. It’ll still be around long after I’m gone.”

“The stuff of legends, truly,” she says. “You know, it seems a waste not to pair it with a beard. What couldn’t you do with both at your disposal?”

“Nah.” He waves off the idea. “World’s not ready for that combination. Can you imagine all the fawning and adoration? I’d spend all my time fending it off and nothing else would get done.”

“Oh, you’re referring to your work with me?” Ellana teases, an impish smile cropping up on her face. “Or did you mean your shady business dealings and literary career?”

“Why not all three?” He grins. “Never a bad idea to diversify if you want to stay successful.”

“True,” she agrees, “though I suppose that also depends on your definition of success.”

“Well, what’s yours?” he asks, glancing down and popping a few buttons open while his own seamstress steps away for a moment. “I admit to some curiosity on that front.”

“Right now?” She glances aside in a feint at concentration. “I don’t know. Surviving the Orlesian court? Everything else seems easy in comparison.”

“This, from someone that survived an avalanche _after_ facing down a darkspawn magister and his dragon minion?” Varric scoffs. “Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve seen you pull off crazier shit. Orlais won’t know what hit them.”

“You’re not going to offer advice, then?” It’s surprising—and refreshing. Nearly everyone else has. At length. Even _Solas_ , and how he has any insight to offer on the subject is…curious.

“What for? You’re plenty cunning and you’ve got good instincts. If anything, I almost feel bad for _them_.” She almost believes him, but the look of mirth on Varric’s face has not a single trace of sympathy and she lifts a brow in response. “What? I said almost.”

“Master Tethras, your _pins_ will come out!” The seamstress calls out, finally taking notice of the buttons he’d undone.

“Shit,” Varric mutters under his breath. He holds up his hands in defeat as the seamstress rushes in to refasten them, his most charming smile not nearly enough to ease the strain of her frown. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

* * *

The Dalish have their own brand of politics. The tenor is different but the methods… Ellana is familiar enough with backstabbing, with jockeying for favor, with backhanded compliments and outright _lies_. It’s not _common_ , no clan would survive long with everyone out for themselves alone, but it’s happened.

Empress Celene’s court has made into an _art form_ and more than once, Ellana has felt herself reach for daggers that need to stay sheathed until the culprit of this assassination plot is unmasked.

More’s the pity. Half the people here could do with a little stabbing.

She tucks into a corner after her dance with Florianne to take a breath, sinking back into the shadows there to let herself just _be_.

“That was quite a show.”

She glances up to see Varric approaching her hiding spot, two drinks in hand.

“I see you’ve managed to tear yourself away from the fawning masses.” She takes the drink he offers with a sly smile. “It should be criminal to have that many fans.”

“What did I tell you? Even all buttoned up, I can’t escape it. Adding a beard is just asking for trouble.”

“Well, you do look—not _nice_ , but…vaguely uncomfortable and making it work for you anyway,” she offers, something near to a compliment.

“Same to you.” Varric raises his glass. “To being vaguely uncomfortable and managing anyway.”

Ellana raises her glass in kind. "That, I can drink to."

It’s not lost on her that his company has done wonders for her calm. She can _feel_ her agitation melting away. The realization is not precisely new, but she’s found herself noticing it more, and wondering…what that might be like. To be in his presence more often. To share space and trade good natured barbs, warm and teasing and subtle enough to enjoy without having to define it.

To do more, though…that’s not an unappealing notion, either.

 _That_ thought surprises her.

Affection crops up in the unlikeliest of places.

“Listen, I know I said I wasn’t going to offer you any advice but…” He watches her for a moment, a mixture of warmth and concern in his expression. “If I were you, I’d sneak downstairs while it’s still quiet and find Sera. She’s been in the servant’s quarters all night and I’m willing to bet she has some goods you can use on these people when you come back up.”

It’s not a bad plan. Rushing to agree without looking like she _needs_ an escape—that’s the tricky part. Knowing Varric, that’s precisely why he suggested it.

She’s liable to crouch down and kiss him if he doesn’t stop being so stealthily helpful.

“Noted.” She drains the last of her drink and shifts out of the shadows, reaching out to place the empty glass on a passing tray before she turns back to offer Varric a smile. “Keep them entertained while I’m gone?”

“It’s a tough job,” Varric sighs, a pantomime of resignation, “but someone has to do it.”

* * *

Florianne is dead.

The _Empress_ is dead.

Ellana is having difficulty feeling guilty about the latter. After a long and bloody night, leaving Briala with the leverage she’ll need to manage Gaspard is a win she will take. That she cannot outright crown the woman is a travesty—Orlais could certainly do worse than Briala at their helm. They _have_ done worse, hence the predicament that the Inquisition had to step in and remedy.

Their Grand Game is one thing. Let them scheme, if it suits them. But treachery like Florianne’s left unchecked might have doomed the world.

Ellana sneaks away to the balcony when she finds an opening, leaving the crowds to titter. Precisely what scandalizes them—the murder? The betrayal? The fact that a Dalish elf, of all things, has saved their collective hides, if only for the moment?

“Why not all three?” she murmurs to herself with a snort of amusement as she loosens her sash. She’s certainly given them a diverse array of reasons and if that isn’t success, she’s not certain what is.

“I thought I’d find you out here.”

She turns, lifting her hands from the buttons she’d been opening on her coat. “You caught me.”

“Hey, I get it,” Varric assures her, glancing surreptitiously about as he continues towards her before following her lead with a sigh of relief, the _hint_ of chest hair peeking out above his exposed shirt. “I will never understand this fascination with buttons up to your _chin_. That was clearly Curly’s idea.”

“Remind me to stop taking his advice.”

"It's not all bad advice. Not if you're inclined towards pummeling shit as a solution, anyway." Varric is silent for a moment, leaning against the balustrade with a thoughtful look. “So—that’s that, then. Orlais saved. What are you planning for an encore?”

“You know, I hadn't thought about it.” Ellana shrugs. “What do you do at a ball? Dance?”

“You _could_ ," he muses, "but it seems a little been there, done that for you. If you’re up for alternative suggestions...Sera tells me there’s a card game starting up in the servant’s quarters now that the dust has settled. Think you might be interested?”

“Get the stakes upped to clothes and you can count me in.” She says it dryly, but there is a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, a warmth kindling in her eyes at the invitation. She can think of far worse ways to end such an auspicious night. “Just between us, I could stand to get out of this fucking uniform.”

Varric laughs. “You and me, both.”


End file.
